


Thaw

by passing-fanciful (kageygirl)



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, First Time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-25
Updated: 2014-06-25
Packaged: 2018-02-06 03:20:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1842442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kageygirl/pseuds/passing-fanciful
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emma's still having a problem balancing "being the Savior" and "enjoying the moments."  Good thing she picked a partner who'll let her find her footing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thaw

At Granny's that morning, Emma slides her hand under Killian's where it rests on the tabletop. He raises his eyebrows at her, but she's not sure if he's responding to her uncharacteristically needy gesture, or to how cold her hand is. She's been chilled since she woke up from an unsettling dream she can't quite remember. His hand is gratifyingly warm, despite the pink tinge still on his cheeks that says he'd gone for a walk along the docks that morning.

"Everything all right, love?"

She watches as he wraps his fingers around hers, thumb stroking across her palm, before looking back up at him. "I know it's Maine and winter and climate change and whatever, but shouldn't the weather be getting warmer by now?"

It's the most casual way she can think of to ask the question. There's an icy little pulse of _wrong--wrong--wrong_ going off in the back of her mind, and she's not even sure it's not just guilt over the cold shoulder she's been getting from Regina the past three days. Something just feels... off.

Killian frowns at "climate change," turning thoughtful as he considers her question. "There does seem to be an ill wind blowing in, now that you mention it. Something ominous is in the air."

Paradoxically, that makes her feel better; it sounds a little silly out loud. She's probably just jumpy from everything that's been going on the past couple of weeks--getting her memories back, living under the threat of Zelena, having to fix up (after screwing up) her parents' meeting. She's been living with the stress long enough to not know what to do with herself now. _Post-Traumatic Savior Disorder._ She rolls her eyes and says, "Or it could just be a nor'easter about to blow in."

"Aye," he says, still watching her, and she drops her eyes to her cocoa, feeling oddly embarrassed. He squeezes her hand before she can take a sip, and she glances back up. "A good thing you have someone to keep you warm, then," he says, with a roguish gleam in his eyes, and it's so cheesy that she has to grin. She tries to cover it with the mug, but she knows he sees it anyway.

* * *

It's a weird day to be the sheriff.

David's out on paternity leave, trying to be there for all the firsts he missed out on with her, and while she still feels a pang at that, it's not the bitter ache it once was. But it does mean she gets to check out all the minor disturbance calls herself. Belle's dad thinks someone messed with his hothouses--now sort-of-warmish-houses--but she can't find any evidence of tampering. A few fender-benders out on the country roads because of icy patches. A noise complaint when one man's dog apparently howled for an hour, and then just stopped. 

More to the point, she was alone all day; Killian said he had "an errand to tend to," and she hadn't been able to come up with a counterargument that didn't boil down to _but I want you around_.

And since she didn't get to have that, he gets to listen to her recap the whole thing over dinner, tucked in the last booth at Granny's. Between the smiles and sympathetic winces he treats her to, she decides they're cool. While they're dawdling over empty plates, she asks him about his day; for just a second, he pauses in a way that abruptly gets all of her attention. "What is it?" she says, and he wipes his mouth slowly in what is _clearly_ a stall for time.

"What we spoke of this morning," he says, face serious. "I've done some digging, and I think you're right to be concerned."

So not what she wanted to hear. "What the hell happened to 'it's probably a nor'easter'?"

"Your words, love, not mine." He gives her a faint, apologetic smile. "I've been a mariner too long not to keep a weather eye on the horizon."

"Oh, yeah?" she says, crossing her arms, and she knows it's a little defensive but come on, can they _seriously_ never catch a break. "So gimme the weather report, Willard."

She's just tense enough that she only enjoys his momentary confusion a little bit. He narrows his eyes at her, then draws a small leatherbound notebook from inside his coat. She stares down at his rings as he splays the book open with his hand, then gives her the highlights. Oddly cold spots around the edge of town. Patches of forest covered in early frost. One of the farms is missing a few chickens, and the rest of the birds seem spooked. 

It could be nothing.

Conversations go on around them, sprinkled with the clink of silverware on plates. The lights wink off his rings. Killian's handwriting is tall and narrow, a looping elegant cursive, like she's seen in pictures of old documents. 

Why can't it ever be nothing?

She traces her eyes up his arm, his face, finally meeting his eyes. "Why?"

He tilts his head, studying her right back. "Why is it happening? I've no idea, yet."

"Why'd you go looking."

He shrugs, the leather coat moving with his shoulders. "I trust your instincts, Swan, even if you don't." She shifts in her seat at that; the last time she ran on instinct, she altered the lives of at least four people without a second thought. He nods gravely to her, his eyes never leaving hers. "Including your instinct to free Robin's wife." 

_Goddamn open book_. "Look how well that worked out."

He leans forward, suddenly intent. His voice is low and sharp. "You've given a broken family a chance to be whole. You gave that child back his _mother_. Do not doubt the immeasurable worth of your compassion."

There is literally nothing she can say to that. She takes a drink of water (wishing for something stronger), swallows hard, and clears her throat. 

"So, is there any kind of a pattern to this magical mystery tour, or just the Ice Capades-gone-wrong theme?"

He gives her a look that says _I am ignoring your transparent attempt to distract me with cultural references I don't share_ , then shakes his head. "None that I've been able to discern but that the town itself has been spared. The incidents seem to be confined to the outskirts and the surrounding areas."

_And the surrounding areas._ That's when it hits her--he doesn't have a car. Or a phone. Or that many friends who aren't currently caring for a newborn--and he's as loathe to ask for help as she is. Which means he's either been getting rides from people who aren't that fond of him, in order to talk to people who aren't that fond of him, or he's spent the day walking the boundaries of the town. She had a _bad feeling_ , and he took that in and took that on himself.

"Right," she says, and takes a deep breath, blinking a few times to clear her vision. "Okay. First thing tomorrow, we'll talk to Robin and see if he and his..." She cannot say _Merry Men_. She just can _not_. "... guys have noticed anything weird out there."

He nods, watching her. Following her lead.

In the spirit of leadership, she tips her head towards the back hallway. "Walk me home?"

With a newborn at the loft (and all of his presents, apparently the whole _realm_ felt they had to pay _tribute_ or something insane), it's been easier to stay in the room she'd gotten at Granny's back when Henry was still missing his memories. 

He grins at her, a quick flash of teeth, and steps around to offer her his hand. "Of course, milady."

She catches Ruby's eye, and gives her the "put it on my tab" nod; Ruby's answering nod is a lot less "will do" and a lot more "go tap that fine pirate ass," if Emma's any judge. She rolls her eyes, but she can feel the blush heating her cheeks.

She takes Killian's elbow and turns away so she doesn't have to see a werewolf snickering at her.

God, she wants that, wants to just focus on this--on them--but that chilly tingle of worry is still there, under her skin. He tucks his elbow against his ribs, bringing her hand with it, and that's when she realizes she's got the heavy leather of his coat in a tight grip. 

Then they're at her door, and he turns to face her. He takes her hand, and ducks his head just a little, the better to meet her eyes. "Whatever the source of these occurrences, Swan, we will find it, and face it, together."

She leans her head back against the wall, just barely overcoming the childish urge to thump it. "Would it seriously have been such a terrible thing to go for one week without something blowing up in our faces?"

He smiles at her, loosing her hand in order to reach up and brush her hair over her shoulder. "Can't have you getting bored, now, can we?"

"Boredom sounds like an _amazing_ change of pace right now." She smooths two fingers up along the neckline of his vest, letting her nails catch a little on the shirt underneath. When she raises her eyes, she sees that she has his full ( _"and prompt"_ ) attention. "Besides, maybe I had... plans."

"Plans?" There's a lovely dark timbre to his voice that sends a thrill through her. He leans in a little more, resting his hand on the wall beside her head. "Do tell."

"Okay, 'plans' might be an overstatement. More like..." She curls her fingers over his vest for balance and stretches up to his right ear. Catching his earring in her teeth, she tugs just enough for him to feel it, then breathes in his ear, "Ideas."

He gives her an appreciative little groan and a wicked grin, all teeth and promises. "I'm quite open to any ideas you might have, love."

She pulls on his vest, and that's all the encouragement he needs to sway in and kiss her, his hand cradling her head, the flat of his hook bracketing her hip. The edges of his coat are brushing her thighs in a way that's wholly intimate, and he smells like sea breeze and leather and some exotic spice she can't even name. It's almost perfect, and that _almost_ is what gets her.

When she pulls away, it's with a frustrated groan, and this time she really does thump her head on the wall. His hand is instantly there, soothing over the back of her head, and she makes a face at him. "Just a week. Really. That would have been too much to ask?"

His lips quirk--a little regret, a lot more understanding than she deserves--and then he gives her a piratical grin. "Believe me, Emma, I'd much rather have you focused than have you... distracted," he says, with just enough emphasis on "have" that she couldn't possibly miss what he's implying (is that even a double entendre? it's like one and a half at _best_ ). It's both so ridiculous and so sincere that it makes her breathe out a laugh--which was absolutely his intention, if the way his eyes shine is any indication.

She covers her eyes for a moment in theatrical dismay--her life, really, her _life_ \--and then drops her hand to see--

_Everything_ is right there on his face--god, how does he _do_ that---and she reaches up to run her fingers down his cheek. He shifts into it, his beard brushing her palm, softer than she might've expected. He catches her wrist with his hook, pressing a kiss to her palm. "Good night, love," he says softly, and transfers her hand to his for a gentle squeeze, before taking a step back, eyes never leaving her face.

"Good night, Killian," she says, no less quiet. He inclines his head to her, like an echo of a courtly bow. She smiles and lets herself into her room before she changes her mind.

It's not that she's waiting, it's just--this is all so new to her, being in no rush because _he's not going anywhere_ and _neither is she_ , savoring the drag and pull of attraction between them, sweetened by the certainty that it _will_ happen (and it will be _amazing_ ). It's also not that she's afraid she'll screw up this thing between them--she might have been, but a year apart and a world away haven't driven him off, and neither has her more recent behavior (some of which she's really not proud of). 

It just--takes some adjustment, the idea that maybe she can want, without life slapping her down for it. That she can _get_ what she wants, that she can _keep_ it, that it might not slice her open if she holds on too tight.

And does she ever _want_.

She takes a deep, deep breath, and thumps her forehead against the inside of her door.

* * *

She comes awake with a gasp that tears at her throat, and she's moving almost before she knows it, fighting out of her blankets, stumbling away from her bed. 

She's glad that Henry's been staying with Regina because she doesn't have to try to be quiet. She's shaking and clumsy with cold as she throws open the door to her room, and he must hear her coming, because his door opens almost under her jagged knock. "Swan?"

She must look like hell, because he pulls her inside and shuts the door before she get a word out through her chattering teeth. He holds her just as he did in Regina's palace, when her mother almost died, and the memory of _that_ on top of the remnants of her dream sends a deep shudder wracking her body. Killian curses softly, and then they're moving and she's sitting next to him on the bed, tucked against his chest, his hand curving over her shoulder, keeping her from shaking apart.

She has no idea how long they sit like that, but when she can feel her fingers again, they're wrapped around the collar of the robe he's wearing, and she takes a deep breath, getting her bearings. When she exhales, her breath stirs the hairs on his chest. He has dark linen pants on, but the sudden acknowledgment that he's shirtless under that robe surprises an appreciative chuckle from her. "Oh, hey, sailor," she murmurs. It's more watery that she'd like, but she feels his answering snort against the top of her head.

He shifts her back far enough that he can look down at her. "If you wanted into my bed, darling, there are far less unnerving ways to get here."

He smirks at her, but in the dim light filtering through the window, she sees the concern shading his eyes. She sits up straighter and pushes her hair out of her face, looking away. "Sorry about that."

He tips her face back toward him with his finger under her chin. "You need never apologize for seeking me out, love," he says, and the look on his face is so tender that she has to feel it, has to run her fingers into his hair and draw him into a kiss. It's brief and sweet and she feels immensely better afterwards.

He presses his lips to her forehead and looks her over again. "Do you want to talk about it?"

_No_ is on the tip of her tongue, but she can see that he won't judge her either way, and _he trusts her instincts_ , so what the hell. She feels a little precarious sitting on the edge of the bed like that, though, so she nods slowly to him, then scoots back until her shoulders hit the headboard. He just watches her for a long moment, until she rolls her eyes and tips her head toward the other side of the bed. "Get up here."

"As you wish," he says softly, and settles beside her. She threads her arm through his, and rests her head against his shoulder. With his warm hand on her thigh, thumb sweeping gently over her pajama pants, she tells him about her dream.

_She was back in the Enchanted Forest, back at Regina's castle, but this time, she was the one tied to a stake. She had no bag over her face, and so she could see Regina--the Evil Queen--staring at her in triumph._

_Instead of the black, Regina was in white--even her hair was a white so pure it was almost blue. She held up her hand, and a ball of solid cold appeared, tendrils of mist dancing over it in the night air._

_Emma looked up to the window they'd been standing in, but the castle was frosted over, and she couldn't tell if anyone was watching._

_Couldn't tell if anyone would care when she was gone._

_Then the ball of cold was hurtling toward her, stealing her breath before it even reached her, burning through every part of her, shattering her--_

She's shaking again, and Killian's hand is on her face, her neck, his knee pressing into the side of her thigh as he's turned toward her. " _Emma_. Come back to me, love--"

She sucks in a hard breath, fights the urge to cough. She nods into his hand, meets his eyes. "I'm okay," and wow, her voice is so raspy that she could _not_ sound less convincing.

"You were ice cold," he says, and she's recovered enough now to see the traces of panic in him, how wide his eyes are, the faint tremor in the hand that hasn't stopped touching her, now gripping her shoulder almost too tight. "You were ice cold, and you _stopped breathing_."

_Oh_. She wraps her arms around him, burying her face in his neck. The warmth of his skin scorches her lips. His left arm is hard around her back, his hand buried in her hair, and she can hear his ragged breath in her ear.

She knows that kind of terror, all too well.

"I'm okay," she says, because she knows he needs to hear it. "It's okay, I'm okay."

She feels him press a kiss to the crown of her head, then her forehead, then her cheek. She's already moving into it when he ends at her lips, and he kisses her, harder than usual, but she needs this, too, needs the grounding in the here and now.

He soon gentles, his lips cherishing, the fingers threading through her hair careful. She's so warm here in his arms--and suddenly, desperately tired. Adrenaline crash, she thinks, now that she's in a safe place.

(Safe with her fearsome pirate captain, terror of the high seas. It should be funny, but right now it just seems to make a strange kind of sense.)

She's starting to slump against him--here is fine, really, he makes a good pillow--when he picks up on her change in demeanor and shifts her so that he can support her back with his arm. "You're exhausted."

"You say the sweetest things," she mumbles, and feels as much as hears his chuckle. She pries her eyes open--when did they close?--and meets his in the low light. "Can I--is it all right if I stay here?"

He gives her a cocky grin. "I'm astounded that you think that, once I had you in my bed, I would allow you to _leave_." 

Even as she's fading, her superpower still works. His tone is just a hair too carefree, his grin practiced.

She knows he's not entirely kidding, but not the way he's implying.

(On the way back to the hospital from Zelena's farmhouse, she'd spent so much energy _not_ watching his every move afterwards that her neck had gone stiff with tension. She'd probably just fucked up _everything_ , doomed them all by letting Zelena take her magic, and every part of her knew that she would do the same thing over again if she had to, which was why she had to _leave_ \--)

She lets him tuck her in, too comforted by his care to be embarrassed by it. She's almost out when he presses a kiss to her eyebrow and murmurs, "Good night, love," but has the presence of mind to reach out when she feels him moving off the mattress. 

She misses, but hears him pause anyway. "Stay with me," she whispers, and when the mattress dips again, she lets herself drift.

* * *

She wakes before he does, and only allows herself a moment (okay, maybe two or three) to lay there, soaking in the feeling of warmth and comfort and _rightness_. She can feel Killian's breath stirring her hair from behind, his body heat warming the sheets, but he's barely touching her, his fingertips just resting against the small of her back.

Some pirate.

She slips out of bed as gently as she can, and turns to look down at him. The morning light loves his face, dancing over the planes and angles, hiding in his hair. It takes another minute and a deep breath before she can make herself move to the door, keeping the doorknob twisted as she goes to minimize the noise it makes.

She throws on clothes and brushes her teeth and hair (the latter quicker and with more force than it really needs), then ducks back across the hall. She once again muffles the doorknob--she's got a vague notion of wanting to be there to wake him up, but no real plan--but it turns out to be unnecessary.

She's not actually 100% surprised to see him already out of bed, hook back in place, tying up his trousers. He's still shirtless, his back to her, and while there's a tiny, terrible part of her regretting that she didn't come back in like two minutes earlier--it didn't escape her notice that he didn't lock the door--the rest of her is taking in the sight of his lean, muscled back, and the shape of his ass in those leather pants. She's thinking now that the ubiquitous coat should get like a citizenry award or something, because that ass? Would stop traffic all over Storybrooke.

"Enjoying the view?" he says, his voice rich with humor. She meets his eyes, so _totally_ busted, and can't bring herself to care.

"I really, really am," she says, and gives in to the simmering want, crossing the room to kiss him. When she scratches her nails through his chest hair, he gives a pleased groan and backs her into the dresser with a thump, rattling the drawers. The kiss turns messy, and Emma lets herself have this, lets herself enjoy the heat building between them.

Killian lifts his head, and his eyes are so, so blue; he grins at her, the edges of it bright and sharp. "Perhaps I should put on a show more often," he says, and it's only when she feels his thumb run along her bottom lip that she realizes she's grinning, too.

"I wouldn't say no," she says, and grazes his nipple with her nail, gratified with the way his nostrils flare. "But, later. Right now, you need to get dressed, because we've got a mystery menace to hunt."

"Work before play, is it?" he grumbles, but the delight in his eyes is undimmed. She giggles ( _giggles,_ this is what he does to her) and presses one last not-quite-chaste kiss to his lips. He steps back, and she lets her hand trail across his chest as she moves away, back into the hall, with a nice solid oak door between herself and temptation.

(He catches her in the hallway, leaning against the wall, absently running the fingers of one hand over the faint beard-burn that's making her lips tingle. He looks _disgustingly_ pleased with himself, and isn't the least bit fazed when she hip-checks him on the way into the diner and tells him to _knock it off already, god_.)

* * *

Robin and his men have noticed it too--solitary patches of ground covered in frost, icy puddles, a rabbit frozen solid that absolutely cannot be explained by the ambient temperature. They promise to keep an eye out for anything else weird, and she thanks them, trying not to stare (and trying not to look like she's not-staring) at Marian playing with Roland. 

Before they can head back to town, she gets another call, and then two more--none of them close to town, and no one's actually been hurt yet, thank god--but it's more driving around to isolated homesteads and checking things out and finding not a single damn thing that makes any sense, unless they're actually having tiny highly localized ice storms (which seems unlikely, though not impossible, because nothing is actually impossible anymore).

She's uncomfortably reminded of the hunt for Zelena--tromping around the woods, looking for a menace they can't even identify. On the way back to the car after talking to their last would-be hermit (what is it with fairytale characters and wanting to live in the middle of Fuck-All Forest?), she stops and huffs out a breath, watches it curl in midair before vanishing, and if that's not a metaphor for this whole damn exercise, she doesn't know what is.

"We're getting nowhere with this," she says, and turns to look at Killian.

"I'm forced to agree." He looks as disgruntled as she feels, which makes it slightly better. It's good to have validation for her annoyance. "Perhaps there's a different tack we should take."

"Which is?" It comes out more curt than she intends, but it is _cold_ and she's tired of looking at random patches of ice.

He spreads his hand in an "in for a penny" gesture, and says, "Magic."

She blinks, not expecting that. "Magic."

He's steadfast in the face of her surprise, reaching out to touch her arm. "You've been getting stronger all the time, love. Perhaps you can find the cause of these incidents with magic."

She's equal parts skeptical, excited, and nervous. A lifetime of not-believing is still hard to get over--magic's not quite in her go-to toolbox, yet--and with Zelena dead, she hasn't tried using it since they got back from the past. Now that she's thinking about it, though, she actually does kind of want to see what she can do.

But there's still the whole _finding it means fighting it_ thing.

Six days. She would have been happy with six days of peace, she swears.

She squares her shoulders and turns back toward the car. "Well, if we're gonna do this, we're gonna do it someplace warm."

* * *

By the time they get back, there actually _does_ seem to be a storm blowing in, the sky an angry, leaden gray, because why not, really. Let's make it a party.

She texts Henry--he's going to stay with Regina. As much as she's been missing him, she's okay with the fact that they've been spending so much time together the past few days (not to mention proud of their sweet, empathetic kid, who can tell where he's needed most). She's also glad to be keeping him out of this (and maybe the tiniest bit jealous, because she's pretty sure the heat at Regina's place is a lot more reliable than Granny's).

But it's not the radiator's fault that the ice has started creeping back up her spine. They're back in her room, for lack of anywhere better to go, and she can't stop herself from pacing, twisting her gloves in her hands. "This is never going to work."

He catches her on the next pass, hook around her upper arm, and folds his hand around both of hers, gloves and all. "Why the sudden nerves, love?"

"Because I've never done anything like this." She frees one hand to stuff her gloves in her pocket--the damn things weren't helping anyway, her fingers are half frozen--but lets him keep the other hand, because she's feeling generous, and not at all because she's getting that _hi, welcome to the Enchanted Forest, you do_ not _know what you're doing here_ feeling. "I don't want to bother Regina--if she's even talking to me--and Gold made it clear that unless Storybrooke was burning down or sliding into the sea, he and Belle are _not_ to be disturbed for the next two weeks."

"You don't need them."

"Uh, yeah, I kind of do. I have no idea how to do that kind of spell."

"It's been my observation that magic is as much about belief and emotion as it is about recipes." He smiles at her, genuine and confident. "And _I_ believe that anything you set your mind to is within your grasp."

She feels her lips twitch in a smile she can't help. She makes a mental note never, ever to tell him that sincerity works _so_ much better for him than innuendo, because he'd probably be the death of her, then.

"Okay," she says, as the fluttering feeling in her head winds down, and she starts to really think about this. Locator spell. Magical GPS. No big. She knows Gold and Regina need something that belongs to a person in order to find that person, but that's dark magic, potion magic, and hers is different; plus, she's not looking for a specific person. So, what does she need?

"A map." She focuses on Killian again. "I need a map. On TV, when they do this kind of thing, there's always a map." His lips quirk like he's about to say something especially snarky, and she holds up a hand because she is _trying_ to stay on track here. "Henry likes fantasy, okay? Which, given where his entire family came from, is either completely weird or completely normal."

"Or both," he says brightly, not to be deterred, and she rolls her eyes. She turns her back and steps across the room to the tiny writing desk to start going through the drawers.

"And who could argue with the _talking box_?" he asks, his voice rich with amusement. "I may have just the thing," he adds, more seriously. She hears him step into the hall. She turns when he comes back, offering her a folded sheet of thick paper.

She unfolds it, and it's a map of Storybrooke, but it looks nothing like the block-lettered maps they have back at the sheriff's station. It's hand-drawn, ink over pencil, with notations in the same hand as his notebook.

"You did this?" she asks quietly. 

"I've had time to fill, on occasion," he says, and she glances up to see him scratching behind his right ear, glancing obliquely at her. "Besides, your local charts lack character."

This one doesn't. She traces a finger over the lines of Main Street, feeling the heavy texture of the paper, reading the notes next to buildings. It's beautiful, a thing made with craftsmanship and care. Here and there are places where the ink is thicker, small marks that just stand out from the rest of the map. They might be drawings, she thinks--that one's a crown, that one a sword--and there's one by her parents' place, a few strokes of a pen.

It might be a tiny swan.

She touches his arm, gets him to meet her eyes. "Thank you," she says, and means more than that. _Thank you for sharing this with me._

He smiles at her, faintly, and then waves his hand at the map. "Well then, shall we?"

She allows the distraction, taking a deep breath and stepping over to the little coffee table in front of the fireplace. She spreads out the map, then sinks down on one of the loveseats; Killian takes the one across from her. 

"I really _don't_ know what I'm doing, you know," she says, and flattens her hands on her thighs to keep them still.

"You'll figure it out," he says, and leans forward to catch her gaze. "Storybrooke's your home, love. If you listen to her, she'll tell you what ails her."

She nods and looks down at the map, dimly lit by the one lamp across the room. It's gotten a lot darker in the time they've been inside. The wind gusts against the windows, rattling them in their frames, punctuated by the sharp clicks of ice pellets. She tries not to take that as an omen.

She focuses, holding her hands over the map, and remembers Regina's words-- _look inward_. She holds onto her magic--it's kind of like holding her breath, in a way--and murmurs, "Show me... dark magic."

At first there's nothing, and Emma feels deeply, painfully stupid for even trying. She glances up, and Killian nods to her--just once, but with a little smile and all the confidence in the world. She looks back down, but can't help an answering smile--and that's when the whole damn map is covered in miniature purple fog. She gasps, and watches it clear away... and the whole town is glowing faintly, all the way to the town limits. 

"The hell?" she says, because if this is true, they are so fucking _screwed_ \--

"It's the curse," Killian says, voice pitched low like he's trying not to startle her. "Both of them, possibly."

"Right," she says, with a touch of chagrin--she sometimes manages to forget, believe it or not, that this whole town, this fantastical gathering of people she loves, is here _because_ of dark magic. She waves her hand like she's chasing away the smoke and thinks, _Show me where it's strongest._

The smoke condenses down to a few indigo spots--Regina's house, her vault, Gold's house, his pawn shop. She looks carefully over the whole map, but nothing else is marked.

Just to see, just in case, she waves her hand again, thinking, _Show me light magic_ , and tiny white glows appear, sparkling on the map like Christmas lights. Regina's place again, faint but present, and she thinks of Henry. A tiny bright spot at her parents' loft, and she blinks rapidly, letting her gaze keep wandering. The brightest one is right here at Granny's, and her lips quirk at that. "'You Are Here', I guess."

"Sorry?" Killian says, in that same low voice. She shakes her head.

"Never mind, bad joke," she says, and stares at the map. It feels like she's on the right track, but asking the wrong questions. She holds her hand over the map and says, "Show me what's making the cold spots."

There's a buzz and a pop like a light bulb blowing out, and a blue flash covers the map, catching her hand. Her hand is instantly, icy cold, as if she's plunged it into a frozen lake. She snatches it back, holding it against her chest. "Shit, _ow_ ," she says, and looks up at Killian. "That doesn't seem good."

"Decidedly not," he says, with a pinched look on his face. 

"I hope that was just me picking up the storm."

She flexes her fingers to get some feeling back, and he holds out his hand, nodding to hers. "May I?"

She lets him take it, and he wraps his hand around hers, stroking his thumb across her palm. He chafes it gently, kneading her fingers with his own. Then he bends his head and brings her hand to his mouth, breathing warmth across her fingers.

She bites her lip at the memory of a beanstalk and a bandage and a spark she had _not_ wanted to feel for a liar and an opportunist and a _pirate_ , of all things. He'd looked up at her through his lashes, devilry in his eyes, and she'd thought _you have the worst fucking taste_ and _he is nothing but trouble_ and _don't even start, 'cause it won't end well_.

(She's been wrong about a lot of things, the past few years. This one, she doesn't regret.)

She stretches out her fingers, brushing his lips. He glances up at her, and what's in his eyes now is wholly different. He presses a slow, deliberate kiss to the back of her hand, his eyes never leaving hers, and there is no part of her that's cold any longer.

That's when her stomach growls.

She snorts out a laugh, and he grins, teeth flashing through his beard. "I believe a higher authority is calling you to task for skipping lunch, darling."

"Yeah, yeah," she says, and curls her fingers under his chin, scratching lightly at his scruff. "Good thing it's not the boss of me."

She stands, skirting the table, and means to lean in for a quick kiss, but his mouth is hungry, and she gets lost for a while. When she finally pulls back and looks down at him, she gets one of those moments--his hair's falling soft over his forehead, dislodged by her fingers, the color's high in his cheeks, his eyes are bright and his lips shine from her kisses. She _notices_ , in the way that she can't let herself most of the time or she would never get anything done, that he's so gorgeous it should be illegal. But there's a new dimension to it now, a new light in his eyes, and it's hard to look away from.

"What is it, love?" he asks, with a laugh in his voice that _she_ put there.

_I did that to you_ , she doesn't say. She combs her fingers through his fallen fringe of hair, strokes her thumb over his eyebrow. "We're getting takeout," she says. "I'm thinking pancakes for dinner."

His eyebrow quirks at the non sequitur, but he leans into her hand. "I bow to your wishes," he says, but it takes another minute before she can bring herself to step away.

* * *

This is possibly not her most convenient and workable idea ever, but dammit, she wants comfort food and she wants to not be around people and she wants to be with her--to be with Killian--and so here they are, camped out shoulder-to-shoulder on her bed with Styrofoam take-out containers.

They've both ditched their boots, and his coat is draped over one of the loveseats, and now they're each trying not to slice through the bottom of the Styrofoam or tip anything over onto the bedspread, and it's stupid and clumsy and _perfect_.

He likes his bacon cooked within an inch of burnt--apparently, "crispy" is a luxury not often found on seagoing vessels--but that makes it both crumbly and unimpressed by their spindly plastic takeout forks. She's taking shameless advantage of the fact that he's trying to be a gentleman and eat only with the fork by swiping tiny bits of it with her fingers while he's occupied. 

The third time she does it, he catches her wrist with his hook. "You could have ordered your own, you know," he says, trying to sound stern, but she's giggling and making him smile.

"But it tastes better this way," she says. She holds out the piece she's captured. "Here, try it."

"That's one of the first lessons of piracy, love," he says, and draws her hand closer to him. His smile turns more dangerous. "It's far sweeter to plunder loot than to come by it honestly."

He takes the piece of bacon with his teeth, then darts his tongue out to lick at the grease on her hand.

She snorts at him, and he grins in triumph. 

"You're completely shameless," she says.

"Not completely," he says, and she catches the shift in his mood. He gives a tight little smile and says, "Best to ration it out, though, for those acts I regret most."

She rests her head on his shoulder. He'd told her about Ariel, the day after she'd kissed him. She knew what it was like, to do things you weren't proud of to try to fill that void inside. She'd meant it when she'd told him she was tired of living in the past.

They finish their dinner in silence, though not an uncomfortable one. Emma clears away their trash--she is kind of the hostess here--and then walks slowly back to the bed.

"You've the look of a woman with a quandary, Swan," he says, and sits up; he'd been lounging against her headboard. There's a part of her that hates that she can't just let go of the worry in the back of her head and take advantage of the pirate in her bed (in every sense of the phrase).

(Oh, god, he's rubbing off on her).

_(Oh, man, if only he_ were _\--)_

She presses her hand against her forehead to stop her thoughts from spiraling any further out of control. Killian looks concerned, starting to stand; she waves him back to the bed.

He settles back down, and she drops down next to him. "Long day," she says, because _the inside of my head is starting to sound like you_ is absolutely not an option. 

"If you'd like me to go--" he begins.

"No, no," she says, maybe too quickly; he smiles at her, though, so maybe just quickly enough. 

It's too early for bed, but she still doesn't want to go out. She asks him about the dice game that the past him had been playing in the tavern, and he confesses, with a twist to his mouth, that it's possible the set he owns hasn't been properly balanced. She gets him to teach her the rules anyway, and as they're sharing the same loaded dice, they come out fairly even.

In return, she breaks out a set of playing cards and sets about showing him the basics of draw poker. His eyes light up when she tells him the game is considered a little on the disreputable side, and he's practically licking his chops when she explains about bluffing.

"So lying is _encouraged_ in this game," he says, showing all his teeth.

"Do _not_ use this to fleece my son," she says, but the glee on his face is hard to get mad at. "Or my _father_ ," she adds, and his eyes widen as if, _crap_ , she's given him wonderful, awful ideas.

"I'll leave the lad out of it," he agrees, concentrating on the cards--she's not sure if card games were a thing in the Enchanted Forest, but he's picking up one-handed shuffling at a rate that is frankly alarming. "But I trust your father can take care of himself," he adds, clearly meaning the _exact opposite of that_.

(She resolves never to introduce him to strip poker.)

(She suspects it's only a matter of time before that genie's out of the bottle without her help.)

At some point, she finds herself hiding a yawn behind a pair of red fours, and he raises his eyebrows at her. "Perhaps we should call it an evening?"

"Actually, I--" He waits for her to finish, but she just shakes her head. "Sorry, I just--" She sighs, and stares down at her lap, her hands braced against her thighs. "I want to ask you for something, but it's completely unfair, and I kind of feel like an asshole."

He barks out a laugh, and she jerks her head up to look at him.

He's grinning at her, wide and daring. "Take it from a professional scoundrel, darling. You could never be so base."

"Wanna bet?" she asks, smiling now, too. 

He holds up hand and hook. "Far be it from me to offer such an ill-advised challenge." He nods to her and says, solemnly, "But as to your question, if it's in my power, you'll have it."

That almost makes it worse. She takes a slow breath, and says, "This is seriously the most awkward question thing, but--can you stay here tonight?" She's shaking her head even as she says it. "I mean, not--just to make sure--"

"--that nothing untoward happens in the night." His eyes are steady on her.

"Yeah." She lets out a sigh. "I just--"

"Of course, love."

Just like that. She doesn't know what she's done to deserve this--patience. He's waited so long for her to get her shit together, and now it has to look like she's tormenting him. "Look, I know that..."

"Emma." He takes both her hands in his, pressing a kiss to the back of each. "Being the savior is part of who you are. I've never shied from that."

"Thank you," she says, and hopes he hears what she can't say yet.

* * *

It's like she's getting ready for the worst date ever. No, it's like she _is_ the worst date ever--which, come to think of it, she'd probably ended up _being_ for all the losers and deadbeats who met her for drinks and ended up in cuffs.

(And, wow, is that train of thought _not_ making her feel better about herself, even if they deserved it.)

But while she's getting ready for bed, there's three thoughts that keep spinning past on her mental merry-go-round: _this sucks_ , followed by _you suck_ , with _what the hell is wrong with the heat_ a distant third. She'd like to tell herself that it's only the last one that has her bundling into unsexy flannel pajamas, but lying would make her feel better, and she doesn't want to feel better.

No, that's not true--she really, really does, but it's like when Pan was in Henry's body: something is wrong, and she can't celebrate until she fixes it.

(Five days, she would have considered five days pretty fucking generous.)

When she taps on his door, he takes one look at her and says, in fond exasperation, "I can't leave you alone for a minute, can I?"

He kisses her forehead, and she drops her head against his chest, breathing in the warm spicy scent of him. Then she tangles her fingers in his and pulls him back down the hall, telling herself that it's just like a slumber party. Alone. With a really hot guy.

(Who traded. His ship. For _her_ \--)

\--Not going there. Just _not_. 

She walks through her own door, and for a second all the awkwardness crashes in and makes her freeze up--logistics, Emma? Did you even think this through at all? Where do you want him to _be_ , exactly, while you're in bed, aside from the _obvious_ \--but he moves past her and kneels to build a fire in the fireplace, giving her a few extra minutes.

(Before the first curse, it had seemed kind of quaint, y'know? Actual working fireplaces in the guest rooms, must be a weird tiny-town New England thing. Afterwards, she tried not to think too hard about it--like, did Regina actually plan every single thing in the whole fucking town? Was a lot of this her subconscious? Was it Rumplestiltskin? Like, who the _fuck_ picked this ugly-ass wallpaper--

And then she would need to have a beer. Or three. Because "magic" is the worst non-answer in the _world_.)

Killian gets the fire going, and she watches his profile as he builds it up, silhouetted by the flames. It's all a distraction, the clothes, the earring, the eyeliner, the attitude; when he's not deflecting attention or covering it up, his underlying nobility shines through.

(She'll never tell him, though--he'd be _scandalized_.)

He catches her staring, and smiles at her; stands up in a single movement of grace and black leather, and her hands itch to grab on, like they did back in Neverland. "Waiting for someone to tuck you in, darling?"

"Maybe I am," she says without thinking. She clenches her hand on the back of the loveseat.

He steps right in--never any personal space, not with him--and she takes his hand, backing towards her bed. She sees his eyes widen for an instant before he shuts it down, shifting back to neutral, and some little detached part of her brain thinks that she can destroy his ass at poker any time he needs a lesson in who not to mess with.

Just past the foot of the bed, her bravado falters; she holds up her hands, and consciously or not, times it so he steps into her, her fingertips landing against his chest.

"I am the absolute _worst_ \--" she starts to say, and he cuts her off with the gentlest of kisses, his fingers on her cheek resting just as lightly as hers over his heart.

"Good night, Swan," he says softly, and takes a step back.

"Good night," she whispers back, feeling faintly (massively) ridiculous, and yet unspeakably grateful.

She gets into bed, and watches as he settles onto one of the loveseats. His coat is still here--he'd left it earlier--and he retrieves a small hardcover book from one of the pockets. 

"I'm used to standing long watches, love," he says at her look.

"Some day, I'm going to find out what you keep in all those pockets," she says.

He chuckles at that. "No doubt." His eyes gleam in a stray reflection of the firelight, and then he ostentatiously holds up his book, blocking his view of her.

She suspects it won't be possible for her to fall asleep, not with him so close and yet not close enough. She's sure her mind will just whirl around everything that's going on (and everything that _could be_ going on instead).

She listens to the crackle of the fire, and the rustle of paper, and she's gone.

* * *

_The farmhouse, again. A heavy frost coats the ground, making the dead grass snap under their boots with a sound like bones breaking._

_Zelena's skin is green--not like in the movie, not Technicolor green, but the pale green that only occurs in massive icebergs, the kind that send unwary ships to a watery grave._

_Gold--the Dark One, now--gestures, and Killian's flung forward into the water tank._

_Emma runs for him, but the water freezes over, icy tendrils clawing for their victim. Emma pulls with everything she has, but she can't get him out. The ice won't release its greedy hold. She can't see him, but she_ knows _he's going pale, fading away,_ dying _, and she doesn't know what to do, she can't help him, she's_ losing _him..._

_She cries out his name, but it comes out thin, reedy and weak. "Killian," she tries again, and again, but he can't hear her through the ice..._

* * *

"Emma," she hears, from a long way away. "Please, love, _please_..."

(It sounds like Killian, but so desperate, so _heartbroken_ , he should never sound like that, no one should ever _make_ him sound like, she needs to get to him--)

She sucks in a breath, and the cold lodges in her throat, icy needles digging in deep. She coughs, and his arm is behind her shoulders as he kneels beside her on the bed, holding her up as she fights for air.

(We've got to stop meeting like this, thinks some tiny hysterical part of her brain, but even if she had the breath to say it, the strain on his face isn't remotely funny.)

He hands her a glass of water, and she takes a drink--the water is cold, so cold, but it helps, a little. Her hands are so numb she's having trouble holding the glass.

"Emma, you have to _stop_ this," he says, and she looks up at him then. His breath is clouding in the room's air. She glances past him, and there's frost on the inside of the windows, dulling the light from outside; the fire's out, too.

A cracking sound makes her look down, and there are ice crystals growing in the water glass. Her cheeks feel tight--her tear tracks are freezing on her face.

"Look at me," he says, and cups her chin, his hand warm on her face. She does, and his face is pale, but determined. "This had to _stop_."

"I'm not _doing_ this," she says. Killian's hand jerks, and goes cold--she sees ice condensing on his rings.

_\--she can't pull him out--_

It _is_ her, she knows suddenly, with a dawning horror. It feels like her, like her _magic_. She tries to pull away from him, but he won't let her go.

"You can master this, Emma, whatever this is." His voice is a fierce whisper. She knows that whatever happens, he won't leave. There's an awful blue tinge creeping into his lips.

But he won't leave her, and so he's right. This has to _stop_.

It has to _stop_ \--

_\--the bridge is coming apart around Emma, she's going to die--_

_\--this has to_ stop _\--_

_\--she has to_ make _it stop--_

\--and just like that, it does. _She_ does.

Her glass is full of water again. The windows clear. The fire springs to life in the grate, and she can see him by its light. He's still too pale, and she sets the water glass aside, almost knocking it over in her haste, and takes his hand in hers.

"It's okay," she whispers, and presses his hand to her lips. "I'm sorry."

She doesn't think, just does it--breathes in deep, and then _reaches in_ and _pushes out_ a wave of warmth, washing out through her limbs, through her toes and fingers, chasing away the cold she brought on. Killian's hand tightens in hers, his head tipping back in surprise, and the color floods back into his cheeks.

For a moment, she just stares at him, because he's fine, thank god, he's _fine_... and then the guilt seeps in, and she has to look away. "I'm sorry," she says again.

He nudges her cheek with the curve of his hook, getting her to meet his eyes. (She's still got his hand, or maybe he has hers. Neither of them seem inclined to let go.) His lips curl in an echo of his most terrible smirk. "If we're to begin apologizing for our dreams, love, I'm fairly certain I've taken more liberties with your person than you're prepared to hear about."

She breathes out the faintest laugh.

He shifts around so he's sitting beside her. "Here's what I don't understand," he says, in a quiet, moving-on tone of voice. "Your magic is light magic, for protection. It makes no sense for it to harm you, or the town."

She thinks back to all the weirdness around town. None of it _felt_ anything like this, like her. "I'm not sure I was the one messing around with the town, actually."

He frowns over at her. "Given a certain wintery theme, your nighttime afflictions can't be a coincidence."

"No, this is Storybrooke. We're not big on coincidence."

He chuckles, and she rests her cheek against his shoulder. Since the Enchanted Forest, she's stopped policing her urge to touch him, and it's been so simple. She hadn't realized how much effort she'd been putting into holding him at arm's length until she just... dropped her arms.

She never thought it would be easier to be _with_ someone than not to be.

With the feel of him warm and solid against her side, she closes her eyes and takes a slow, deep breath, then another.

Her magic thrums at the back of her head. The few times she's really focused on calling it up, it always seemed to be waiting dormant until she needed it, but now... the closest she can come to describing it is that it feels agitated, wound up, a rubber band pulled too tight, or a hornet's nest that's already been disturbed. It's exactly the feeling that's been bugging her the past few days.

She has a sudden hunch, and opens her eyes to scramble off the bed. Killian says, "Swan?" but she's got the map in hand and is back on the bed before he can get very far.

"We're gonna try this again," she says, sitting cross-legged on the bed, letting her thigh rest against his. 

He looks a little wary. "Are you sure this is wise? After what happened the last time..."

"Last time I hadn't figured out what to do." She spread the map out in front of her, smoothing it over the rumpled covers. "Now I have."

She gathers warmth in her hand and holds her hand over the map. She considers the town, the people represented by the little pictures on this map, and doesn't think about finding magic. She thinks, _Let me help._

The blue flash happens again, but this time, she's fine, no frostbite. The light fades away, leaving one glowing azure spot.

Killian's face looks eerie in the glow, but the soft smile he gives her is becoming wonderfully familiar. "And here you thought you needed a tutor," he says softly, impressed and pleased.

She ducks her head, pretends to be studying the map. "I think... I think I needed to figure out how to deal with this, whatever this is, before I could find it. Sort of like... passing a test. Or going through boot camp."

He opens his mouth, and she shakes her head quickly before he can speak, how right she _knows_ she is burning in her head. "Boot camp. Uh, like basic training. Like Regina dropping me off that bridge to get me in touch with my magic. I had to learn what to _do_ when I found it."

He looks at her, lines of concern marring his forehead. "And some part of you believed the best way to do that was to threaten your life."

_No,_ she thinks, _not_ my _life_. But that's too big a thought right now, and so she concentrates on her magic.

She eases her hand down, and the blue glow stays put. She quirks her lips at him. "Can I tell you a secret?" she asks, and hopes that the half-light will hide her half-truth. She leans in and says, conspiratorially, "I can sometimes be a little stubborn."

"I'll not hear such calumny," he says, and strokes his thumb across her chin. There's so much pride shining in his eyes that she's embarrassed, but she stops herself from looking away.

Instead, she leans in and kisses him, because she wants to, because she can, just a gentle brush of lips. "Come on," she says, and slips off the bed to find her clothes. "Let's go find this thing."

He raises his eyebrows at her, then nods to the clock at her bedside. "It's early yet, love. Shouldn't we wait until daybreak?"

"I don't think we have time for that." She doesn't know how she knows, but she does. 

Killian looks in her eyes, and he nods, getting to his feet. "Then I'll meet you downstairs."

* * *

Plowing has already begun, because apparently even a snowpocalypse can't keep dwarves from working. The roads are already better than they would've been in Boston, this soon after a big storm, but it's still dicey out there. Emma doesn't trust the traction on the Beetle, so they take one of the cruisers, and despite the whisper of urgency in her head, she keeps it down to a safe speed.

She parks along the road, closest to the glow on the map, leaving her hazards on to avoid taking a plow to the rear bumper. She and Killian start making for the deserted patch of woods that seems to be their destination. 

It soon becomes clear that walking in anything but single file is stupid. She glares him down and takes point first, breaking the path ahead of them. 

"Your dream, tonight," he says, over the crunch of snow. It's quiet out here, but the snow is deadening sound, as if weighing it down.

She glances over her shoulder. "Yeah?" She's not entirely encouraging. Here in the middle of this stupid winter wonderland, in the dark and the cold, it's harder to keep her thoughts away from her nightmare.

"You were calling my name," he says, with something in his voice she can't quite place. She pauses, reluctantly, to let him catch up. He stops behind her, a dark blur in the corner of her eye. After a moment, he says, "As grateful as I am that your magical studies are advancing, I hope I wasn't the villain this time."

_Can you blame me for being uncertain?_

"Of course not," she says, turning to face him. There's a twist to his face that makes her ashamed that her fears have led him to doubt what she thinks about him. (Again.) 

She steps toward him. "Killian, I wouldn't have figured it out without you."

"Oh?" He raises his head, his eyebrows going up. "How so?"

She blinks rapidly, and sets her jaw, but she owes him nothing less than honesty. "It wasn't me--it was _you_." She meets his eyes, and says, "I dreamed that I lost you. And then I woke up, and I hurt you." She swallows thickly. "And I couldn't _stand_ that I was hurting you."

He stares at her for a long moment, like the thought of that never would have entered his head. Then he brushes his gloved fingers over her cheek, a faint smile turning up the corners of his mouth. "No harm done," he says, and nods to her. "None that you couldn't fix."

The trust in his eyes is almost too much to handle.

She ducks her head and turns back around--mission, they are on a mission here. She needs to focus on her footing.

(He's still the same distance behind her, but somehow, he feels closer.)

When they reach the patch of forest, it feels like the temperature is dropping like a rock, and not planning to stop; Emma pulls her scarf up higher around her cheeks and chin, but her breath is crystallizing on it with every exhale. This _has_ to be magic, she thinks, it's almost a haze in the air, and then she almost smacks herself in the head (only stopping herself because her face is numb and she wouldn't feel it anyway).

She whirls on Killian--well, clumsily sloughs around in the mounded snow--and takes his hand. His head comes up from being tucked against his chest, buried in his own dark bandana, and he looks a question at her.

She _pulls_ at her magic and lets it warm her all the way through, then sends it to Killian in a way that feels like blowing him a kiss. His cheeks pink up, and he shakes his head like he's coming awake.

"Do _not_ make a joke about how hot I am," Emma says, holding up her free hand, and he gives her a dirty chuckle. 

"I'll have you know, plucking such low-hanging fruit is beneath me."

She stares at him. "Since _when_?"

"Since you've beaten me to the draw, darling." He reaches out and brushes a clump of melting ice out of her hair. "I'll have to be quicker off the mark next time."

"Great," she says flatly, but she's trying not to smile, and his smirk says he can tell. Instead of pushing him into a snowbank like she _should_ , she turns back to trudging, keeping hold of his hand, keeping the unnatural cold at bay. 

They reach a small glade, and Emma stops to stare. There's a miniature ice storm whirling between the trees, with a brilliant blue-white glow centered above a tiny pool, now frozen solid.

"I'd venture to guess we've found the source of our troubles," Killian says.

"No shit," she breathes. She thinks there might be something in the middle of that glow, and tightens her hold on both her magic and Killian's hand. "Come on, let's do this."

She's not quite as confident as she's trying to sound. When she reaches the edge of the spinning shards of ice, she squeezes her eyes shut before stepping inside. And then opens them again, because nothing hits her.

The ice storm has shrunk, still whipping in front of her, but nothing's hitting her or Killian. She edges forward, eyes open this time, and watches it shrink again, just beyond her reach.

She stretches her hand out, and it contracts further. The leading edge is vanishing before it reaches either of them. 

"Well done, Swan," Killian says, his voice hushed. She looks back at him, and he's grinning at her, eyes shining.

She grins back. "Not done yet," she says, and she carefully steps forward.

She stops at the edge of the pool--really more of a big puddle, now that she can see it clearly, with a few stones poking out past the sheet of ice. The glow's coming from the top of the largest one. Emma taps her boot carefully against the edge of the ice, wondering if it'll dissolve like the shards in the air, but it's solid under her foot. Still wary, she takes the two steps to get to the stone, and crouches down to look, Killian kneeling beside her. 

It's hard to see through the glare, but there might be a tiny figure in the middle of that glow. There's a movement, and then it swirls up, hovering in the air, the storm vanishing entirely. 

It darts toward them, and Emma jerks back, losing her balance on the ice and landing on her ass. Killian keeps hold of her hand, and stares at the little glowing light, now hanging in front of his face. 

Emma scrambles back to her knees, and takes a chance by transferring her hand to his shoulder. She feels her magic still echoing out to him, pushing back the bitter cold.

Killian reaches out to the glow, and she tightens her hand on his shoulder. "Watch out--that thing could be dangerous."

His voice is low and soft, like he's soothing a frightened animal. "She's not dangerous, Swan. She's just lost."

Emma frowns at him. "'She'?"

"She's a frost sprite, Swan--they're all female." The tiny glow drifts down and settles on the back of his glove, soft as a feather. He peers at it--her--the glow reflecting in his eyes. "What are you doing here, little one?"

"You know about these--" She's about to say _things_ , but it seems rude in her head. "--'frost sprites'?"

"Aye," he says. The glow dims, and Emma can make out a humanoid figure. The light's coming from her hair, floating behind her back like wings. Her feet are making frost blooms on Killian's glove, melting as soon as she steps away. 

Killian's voice is still so quiet. "We once rode out a winter storm in a northern port, and shared the tavern with a group of sailors from a foreign realm. They were large and loud and entirely too enamored of furs and horns on their helmets, but once the spirits began flowing, we got on well enough."

"Imagine that," Emma says, matching his tone. He smiles at her, then looks back at the sprite.

"Their captain was a woman--not the only one in the crew, either, and all of them as loud and large as the men. Milah took a liking to her instantly."

Emma slides her hand behind Killian's neck, cradling the back of his head. "It's all right, love," he says, his eyes clear, and turns his head to kiss her forearm. He nods back at the sprite, and says, "The captain had a bracelet set with a sliver of enchanted ice, and to that ice was bound a frost sprite. Milah was entranced by the tiny lass--asked every question she could think of. The sprite had saved the captain's life once, led her to safety when she'd been lost in a vicious storm. Hadn't wanted to be parted from the captain after that."

"Can they talk?" Emma asked. Killian shook his head.

"Not with us, at any rate. They seem to be able to understand us somewhat, according to the captain." He frowns at the sprite. "They usually travel with their sisters, unless they've bound themselves to someone. I've no idea what she's doing here all alone."

The sprite zips into the air and circles in front of Killian, glow brightening briefly. Then it dims again, and she spirals unsteadily back down to perch on the back of his finger, giving Emma the impression of a falling leaf. "She doesn't look too good."

"They need the ice of their realm to survive--it holds a special kind of magic." He looks up at Emma, face troubled. "She won't survive long without it."

"Poor thing," Emma says, and means it. "So she's responsible for all the weirdness?"

"Not her intention, I'm sure. They're not malicious creatures."

The sprite makes a complex little pattern in the air, then drops back down, landing on Killian's hook. Her glow pulses at him--Emma's not sure how she knows it's at him, but she does--and then... the only way she can describe it is that the taste of magic is gone from the air. 

She eases back on her own magic, and nothing happens--it's just regular-cold now, not frozen-hell cold, and the storm is gone. She's not sure whether it's because the sprite trusts them, or because she's too weak to keep it up. Emma stands, carefully, and hold out her hand to Killian. 

"Come on. She shouldn't have to die out here just because she's lost and scared and alone."

* * *

Whether it's his voice, the fact that he's not the one who was broadcasting magic, or that his metal hook is colder than anything else they're carrying, she can't say. The sprite seems content to cling to Killian's hook, delicate patterns of frost spiraling out from where she rests. 

"She likes you," Emma says, glancing over at Killian. The sun's come up, breaking through the clouds, and the snow's glittering around them; his black leather makes him stand out even more than usual, and it seems like overkill. It's been a long time since she needed any help finding him--across a room, a road, or a forest clearing, she always knows where to look.

"How could she not," he says, but quietly, with none of his usual bravado. He seems entranced that the sprite finds his hook--finds him--to be a source of comfort, and Emma feels obscurely guilty about that.

Casually, pretending to watch her steps in the snow, Emma says, "I know how she feels." Killian's head comes up, and he catches her wrist; she lets him turn her to face him, and doesn't even try to hide her smile.

"I knew you couldn't resist me," he says in a low voice. The words are cocky, but the joy in his eyes is something she wants to see there every day from now on. He cups her cheek with his gloved hand, and then kisses her, briefly but thoroughly, chasing away the cold.

Emma's not using her magic any more, but she holds his hand all the way back to the car.

* * *

She's pretty much prepared to full-on lie to Gold about what he did to them as Rumplestiltskin, back in the Enchanted Forest, to ensure his cooperation (memory potion, the gift that keeps on giving!). But it's Belle who answers the phone, and she agrees to help right away.

"I think the universe owed us that one," she mutters to Killian after hanging up her phone, and he smirks.

Belle meets them at Gold's shop, head down over a book (of course) bound in some white, scaly leather that Emma is just not going to ask about. "I think we have just the thing," she says, before Emma can even get a word out, and hustles further into the shop.

Emma raises her eyebrows at Killian, and he shrugs. "I make it a point not to interfere with a woman on a mission."

She comes back with a small glass bell jar, and Emma has one of those _what the actual fuck_ moments, because she _saw_ the Disney movie with the rose and everything, and if it were anyone else, she might think she was being punked. (Come to think of it, Killian's the only one she's heard express any interest in seeing themselves as portrayed in the movies, and she's holding out on that one for when she wants to traumatize him. Maybe if your whole life is better than a movie, it's hard to get worked up over a cartoon.)

Belle misreads her look, and hastens to reassure her as she sets it on the counter. "This will work, I'm sure of it."

Killian jumps in (thank god, she's still processing). "Work how? Can this make enchanted ice?"

"I'm afraid not," Belle says, and smiles sadly at the sprite, still resting on Killian's hook. "We don't have anything that can. But this can... preserve her, keep her from getting any worse."

Emma narrows her eyes at that, because a lot of what's in Gold's shop isn't nearly that benign, and Belle sounds just a little uncomfortable, and, well. Superpower. "You mean 'preserve her' like suspended animation, or 'preserve her' like she'll be awake and tortured the whole time?"

Belle glances down at her hands, then back up at Emma. "Rumple... had only used it for the second one, but he says it all depends on the intent of the person who empowers it."

"Fair enough," Emma says, trying hard to hide her distaste. She reaches out toward the glass, but stops before touching it. "What's the price?"

"No price," Belle says, and smiles a complicated smile. "Rumple is turning over a new leaf."

Killian's eyebrows shoot up, and Emma knows whatever comes out of his mouth next will _not_ be good. "Thank you, and thank him for us," she says hurriedly, and presses her boot against Killian's, trying to convey _do not antagonize the nice newlywed who's doing us a favor on her damn honeymoon_.

Belle nods, and gestures to the bell jar. "Just pick up the cover, let her go inside, and then concentrate when you close it."

Emma picks up the cover with both hands--it's heavier than it looks, and she thinks it might actually be crystal, not glass. Killian brings his hook over the base, and bows his head to the sprite. "This won't hurt a bit, little one. You may trust Emma."

The sprite flutters into a little vertical loop, and Emma gives her a brief smile. "It's gonna be okay," she says, and sets the cover down, thinking of home and family, hoping for a happy reunion for the sprite and her sisters.

The cover glows white, and frost blooms spring into being along the inside. She can just see the glow of the sprite, holding steady now, and hopes that she's having good dreams.

Killian rests his fingertips against the crystal, and Emma sees memories clouding his eyes. He blinks them away, and gives her a smile.

Emma's just trying to decide what to do with the bell jar now when Belle makes a noise, a genteel clearing of her throat. "Can I--is it all right if I look after her for a little while?" Emma feels her eye widen--mostly at the timing, Belle's question echoing her own thoughts--but Belle seems to misinterpret that, rushing ahead to say, "I want to keep checking, make sure there's nothing else in my books that can help. I'll take good care of her, I promise." She seems diffident, but sincere.

She and Belle have never been close--Emma's never really gotten the Rumplestiltskin thing--but maybe the woman dating Captain Hook needs to reconsider the stones she throws. Still, she's not the only one to ask, and she looks behind her. "I--Killian?"

She sees Belle glance at Killian, too, and remembers anew that theirs hasn't been the least rocky of relationships. Killian seems uncomfortable to be put front and center--she's not sure if they really hashed things out after everything that went on between them. 

(God, the number of murders and attempted murders in their freaky extended family makes the Mansons look healthy and well-adjusted. She learned a long time ago to let the fairytale folk deal with their shit between themselves, though, so she stays out of it.)

Killian gives Belle a solemn nod. "I know she'll be in excellent hands."

"Thank you," Belle says, to both of them.

They leave the shop, and Emma looks up at Killian on the way back to the car. "I'm not sure I like the idea of leaving her in there forever, but I don't know what else to do."

Killian reaches out to squeeze her fingers. "Maybe we'll find someone who knows how to make enchanted ice, love." He smiles, and brushes the back of his index finger across her chin. "Or maybe you'll learn how to make it."

* * *

After that, it's a pretty normal post-storm kind of day--downed tree limbs, power outages, minor accidents of the car-meets-inanimate-object variety. (The New England driving mentality is bad enough, but when you add in "I used to be a knight! I fought dragons for a living! I'm not afraid of _snow_ ", some true idiocy happens out on the roads.) 

She drags Killian along, partly to give him the full Storybrooke Sheriff's Department Experience, mostly because he makes it all eminently easier to deal with. (She enjoys the hand at her back and the smiles in the car just as much as the faces he makes as he overhears her half of an aggravating phone conversation and the eyerolls behind the back of Irate Citizen Number Whatever.)

The day goes by faster and less painfully than it should; she should be wiped, having been up since before dawn, but the exhaustion never hits. She's okay, better than okay, and her biggest problem is keeping her Sheriff's face neutral, instead of smiling inappropriately.

She gets a text from David--they're picking up Henry, and does she want to meet them for dinner? Of course she does, but Killian bows out of the family dinner funfest. "You should be with your family, love," he says, and places a soft kiss on the back of her hand ( _silly_ and _old-fashioned_ and _don't ever change_ ). She wants to correct him--something like _that doesn't mean you should leave_ \--but the words get tangled up in her head; he must see some of the struggle, because he smirks at her and says, "As I know how much you enjoy it, I'll even let you keep an eye on me."

True to his word, he takes a seat at the counter, and if she sits against the wall so that she has an excuse to face him, well, that's her business.

And then there's hugging her kid and holding her baby brother and trying not to laugh at the dark circles under her parents' eyes (it's _funny_ , okay, and even if her memories of baby Henry are courtesy of Regina, it's still nice to be the one with more life experience sometimes). They seem just a _little_ too strung out for her to drop the whole 'random frost sprite' thing on them tonight, so she keeps it to herself. She glances over from time to time to see Ruby chatting with Killian, leaning over the counter--it's quiet tonight with most of the town nesting at home, so the diner's not all that busy. They seem to be having a good talk; at one point, Ruby disappears down the hallway leading to the inn, and reappears with a pair of books that she hands to Killian.

Henry's in the middle of a story when Killian turns to glance in their direction, clearly done with his meal; she gives him a faint smile and a fractional nod, and he returns both before heading for his room.

It's not long before David says, " _Well_ , we should be going," in a slightly pointed tone. 

Mary Margaret frowns a little at him and they have one of those brief complicated discussions that only involve their eyes. "Yes, we should get Neal to bed," she says, turning back to Emma, and if there's an edge of _this discussion will continue in private_ in her voice, hey, at least Emma's pretty sure she's not the one at fault, so, there's that.

There's hugs all around, and she messes up Henry's hair because it's her job as a mom to torment him, and then they're out the door and the diner is awfully quiet.

It's quiet in her head, too, as Emma makes her way upstairs, quiet as she gets ready for bed in a tank top and sweatpants. Quiet as she comes to a decision and steps out into the hallway, her bare feet making little sound on the floorboards.

The light's still on under his door, but she knocks softly anyway, just in case. There's a rustle right away, and then he's there, framed in the open doorway. His boots and coat are off, and she peeks past him to see the bedspread folded back, but the bedsheets are only rumpled enough to indicate he's been sitting up reading.

"Do I pass inspection?" he asks, a tease in his voice.

She shakes her head--not disagreeing, just wondering when she let herself get so easy to catch. "Wanted to make sure I wasn't bothering you. Can I come in?"

She expects something between flirty and salacious in return, but maybe he's caught her mood (or maybe it's just one of those nights). "Of course, love," he murmurs, and ushers her in.

She doesn't move to sit down or anything, drawn more to the periphery of the room. She picks up one of the knickknacks that colonize the decorative shelves, a vaguely creepy porcelain cat, and runs her finger over the stylized rounded ears. She hears Killian shut the door behind her, and puts the cat back down (facing the wall, thanks).

"How fares your family?" he asks. 

Turning to nod at him, she says, "Good. They're good." She smiles at him. "You're welcome to join us, you know. For dinner. Find out for yourself."

He looks down for a second, then back up at her, something complicated in his eyes. "I wouldn't wish to impose."

"You wouldn't be," she says, quietly.

He gives her a pained smile, then steps back toward the bed. "I'm not certain your parents would agree." 

He drops a bookmark in the book sitting open on the nightstand, then closes it, setting it on top of another--the books Ruby handed him, she thinks. Both look like they came from the little library in the sitting room downstairs.

She keeps circling, glancing at a painting on the wall, a watercolor seascape, then focusing back on him. "They have to. You helped them get together," she says, and watches him drop his head and rub the back of his neck. Feeling a little impish, she asks, "Are you afraid of my parents?"

He shakes his head at her in contrived disappointment. "Bad form, Swan. Here I am, trying to be considerate, and now you've gone and besmirched my honor." He folds his arms and drops to the bed, back against the headboard, one leg resting on the mattress, the other bent at the knee. He's the picture of rakish, elegant disdain, lounging there, and he signs his work with a slow blink and a haughty look that emphasizes his cheekbones. "I demand satisfaction."

"Oh, you'll get it," she says, giving him a suggestive tone and a dirty little grin, and he ruins all that hard work by widening his eyes and grinning back at her, a pirate once again. "Seriously, though," she adds, "I love them, but there's only so much baby-related talk I can sit through without another adult around." She hauls out the big guns and feels no shame. "Henry would appreciate the distraction, too, I'm sure."

He tilts his head and raises his eyebrows at her. "Are you actually _requesting_ a dashing rescue now, Swan?" 

She remembers those tunnels under the castle so well, how she'd gotten past step one (get out of the cell), was working on step two (get out of the castle), and the unformed specter of step three was hanging in the air (find Killian and her parents)--and she hadn't needed it because there he was, _right there_ , coming back for her.

She drops all pretense and shrugs, facing him head-on. "Maybe I just enjoy your company."

That sets him back for a second--he blinks quickly, then bows his head. "Then I would be a wretched soul indeed to deprive you of it." 

"Good," she says, and means it. 

Her circuit takes her to his sword belt and coat, draped over the chair at the writing desk, not far from the bed. She picks up the right sleeve, intending to check the damage to the cuff--she felt it tear before going through the portal--and finds it solid. Looking closer, she can see the stitches, heavy black thread, still shiny and new. "Hey, you fixed it."

Killian holds up his hand. "I'm a man of many talents, love," he says, with no small amount of pride, and she lets it go without comment. He _outran a curse_ , after all. "Not that it's easy," he adds, raising his hook, "but I've had more than enough time to practice, and no intention of allowing myself to be beholden to the rabble under my command."

"I'm not following." She sits down beside him, one knee drawn up on the bed. Her right thigh's all but touching his, and she makes a loose fist above her knee, gathering the baggy fabric of her sweats in her grip.

He makes a circling gesture with his hand. "On the open ocean, there are no new clothes unless you plunder them. It's learn to sew, go in debt to someone who does, or be naked in tatters by the end of the voyage," he says, with a twinkle in his eye. He smirks, and adds, "You should see what Mister Smee can do with a darning needle."

She opens her fist, flattening the bunched cotton with her palm. Then she fans her fingers, letting them skate over the smooth leather covering his thigh. "I think I'd be more interested in this 'naked' thing."

She looks up at him, and there's a fire in those blue eyes, though the rest of him is very, very still. "You've only ever had to ask, darling."

She could leave, right now, and he'd let her. He'd let her come back tomorrow, and the day after that, let her take as much time as she needed.

She could--and that's why she doesn't.

"I'm asking."

He draws a deep breath, and now, now his eyes are blazing. "Far be it from me to deny the request of a lady."

Without looking away from her, he starts loosing the closures on his vest, hand moving deftly over the tiny hooks. When he moves on to the buttons of the shirt underneath, she scoots up the bed, letting her hand trail up his thigh, veering at the last second to end over his hip. "Far be it from me to be mistaken for a _lady_ ," she breathes against his lips, and she watches his tongue dart out, as if trying to taste her words.

She's not sure which of them breaks first. It doesn't matter, because they're kissing, hotly and sweet, his hand buried in her hair, hers soaking up the warmth of his chest. His hook around her calf gives her a little thrill and all the encouragement she needs to shift her leg over his.

What little restraint she had left evaporates when he changes the angle to deepen the kiss, because, _god_ , he's been holding back. Neverland was _nothing_. This is primal, carnal, and Emma feels her hips shifting restlessly as she aches to be touched. He crooks his knee and lets her grind herself against his thigh, her own pressing into the ridge of his erection.

She moans into his mouth, and then pushes herself away, just far enough to look down at him. His pupils are blown wide, eyes crinkling merrily, but his mouth looks positively obscene. She bats at the underside of his shirt with the backs of her hands. "Off. Everything, _off_ , right now."

"I _was_ in the midst of doing so when someone interrupted me," he says, smirking up at her, but he's breathing heavier, too, no less affected than she is. His hand drops to her waist, and then he dumps her sideways onto the bed, chuckling at her shocked (delighted) gasp. She lets it go when he shucks his vest with admirable speed and, forgoing the last few buttons, pulls the shirt over his head. (She's kind of impressed that the hook hasn't gotten in the way so far, but then again, well. Lots of practice.)

She rolls onto her side and props her head on her hand, taking this chance to catch her breath. He reaches for the ties on his pants, and then looks a question at her; she rolls her hand in a _get on with it_ gesture. "Was I not clear on 'everything'?"

He grins at her, but he _slows down_ , dammit, as if the bastard knows that her show of nonchalance is costing her. "Not a bit, but I was hoping to be rewarded with parity."

"Oh, were you?" She leans over to press a kiss to his shoulder (and watches his face go soft for a second), then slides her thumbs under the waistband of sweats and underwear both. Pressing her shoulders into the mattress, she slides them over her hips, kicking them over the side of the bed when they're far enough down. 

He's stopped moving entirely, drinking in the sight of her legs with his eyes. While she likes having that effect on him, it's not getting the job done, so she nudges his ankle with her bare toes and says, "Your move."

Apparently she's not the only one with magic, because the rest of his clothes basically disappear, and then he's rolling onto his side to face her. His expression says, _Well?_ , one eyebrow raised, and now she's the one holding up the show. He's just...

There's not a trace of shyness about him, and there doesn't need to be. The dark wiry hair down his chest, his arms, his legs just highlights the lean corded muscle beneath. He's hard, for her, and not at all ashamed of letting her know it. Her mouth goes dry.

She reaches out and grabs at the chain he's still wearing, and pulls him in, running her leg along his, feeling the crinkle of hair against her skin. He rests his hand on her belly, and her breath goes shallow at the thought of those nimble fingers heading to--but then he moves up, under the hem of her tank top. "Parity, love," he murmurs, a trace of admonishment in his voice.

She crosses her arms and grabs the hem, lifting her shoulders off the mattress to pull the tank top off. When it clears her vision, he's just gazing at her, expression indescribable.

She raises herself on both elbows (and maybe arches her back a little; she knows he likes her breasts) and says, "That bad, huh?"

He brushes her hair back from her face, and just smiles at her; this is a smile she hasn't seen before, not a carefree one, but as if everything he's been through has been worth it just for this. "From the moment I met you, I've never seen a more glorious sight in all the realms."

She's touched, but she snorts at that. "Please. You've seen me half-drowned, covered in jungle sweat, and crying my eyes out."

"Aye," he says, and runs his fingers down the side of her face, over her ear, stroking down her neck. "I've seen _you_ , Emma."

God. _God_. She wraps his fingers behind his neck and drags him in for a searing kiss, letting her body weight pull him down. He follows eagerly, his mouth hard on hers, hand roving freely, those calloused fingers leaving her skin sensitized in their wake. Then he gives a broken little groan and pulls back, and she feels his breath puff against her face. She opens her eyes to see his still closed, a hitch in his breathing that says he's trying to ratchet it down.

It's only when she sees the cracks that she truly appreciates the iron of his control. 

She's not quite sure how he's been doing it--he's known what he wanted for over a year. She's only had days since she really admitted it to herself, and yet she can hardly think straight.

It might be a selfish impulse, but she wants to rattle that control. Wants him to know that she's all in, that she wants everything he's ever offered her. Wants him to know that it's okay to _take_.

He's propped up on his left elbow, with the curl of his hook resting on the curve of her right shoulder. She stretches and casually bends her right arm, wrapping her hand around the hook to control it. His eyes pop open when she gets a knee against his hip and pushes him over on his back, and she grins in triumph at the surprise on his face. 

Before he can do anything else, she anchors her fingers in his hair, pulls his head back, and drags her teeth up the long column of his throat. He shudders, his breath going harsh in his throat.

She thought that might be a weak spot. She's learned a thing or two about her pirate, including the fact that he loves flirting with danger; where some people might, oh, _cover up_ a sensitive area, he just walks around showing it off, daring the world to do its worst.

She nuzzles his jaw, then leans up to whisper in his ear, "Tell me, Killian. Tell me what you want."

He groans, turning it into a decadent chuckle. "You, Swan," he says softly, and reaches to cradle her head. "What I want is all of you."

He kisses her, delicate and deliberate. It's only been a few days, this thing of theirs, and yet she's learning his kisses already: _you are precious to me_.

It makes something in her chest hurt.

Then he's tipping her head to the side, deepening the kiss. His hand skims down her side, skating over her ribs, and she shivers, skin jumping under his touch. 

His hand stills on her hip, thumb stroking the crease of her thigh, and he looks up at her, eyes sinfully dark. He runs his tongue along the inside of his lip, slowly, and she has to bite hers. 

He's reading her again, what she wants (what she's imagined, more than once), and it doesn't even occur to her to be embarrassed because everything about him says that he really, really likes what she's thinking.

"Up, love," he says, hand a steady pressure on the back of her thigh. The flat of his hook applies the same to her other thigh, and the cool metal sends another tremor through her. "Let's get a look at you," he says, and the gravel in his voice makes desire coil tighter in her stomach. 

She shifts up the bed as he slides down, and then she's grabbing the headboard for balance, letting her hair curtain around her as he settles her down against him, his face between her thighs. The first swipe of his tongue has her tightening her grip and biting back a moan.

Then he goes to work in earnest, and she drops her forehead against the wall and tries to remember to breathe. 

He's both methodical and fiendishly inventive, lips and tongue and even the flats of his teeth coming into play. His hooked arm is wrapped around her thigh, keeping her squirming in check, but his hand is dancing over her back, her ribs, her stomach, palming her breasts, teasing her nipples. He thrusts his tongue into her, sucks on her clit, laps at her with rough strokes, and it all blurs together until she's coming, muffling her breathy moans with the back of her wrist.

She collapses gracelessly next to him--her knees don't seem to want to work--and nuzzles into wet kisses with him, her hands moving restlessly in his hair, along his cheeks, down his neck. She encounters his chain, pooled against his throat. She fingers the tiny skull, the dagger, and feels his hand tighten in her hair when her nails prick at his skin.

She tastes her way down his neck, skin warm with a hint of salt, noses though his chest hair, nips at his stomach. She hears his breathing change when she sets her palms against his hips, and looks up at her handiwork.

He's resting his head on the brace for his hook, watching her, but there's nothing relaxed about him--his cheeks are flushed, lips parted, eyes burning into her. She gives him the most sultry smile she can come up with, and then draws her tongue heavily up his cock.

His shoulders curl off the bed, and he catches her chin with his hand, eyes squeezed shut. He exhales, and then smiles at her, a mix of fondness and heat. "It's not that I don't appreciate the offer, love," he says, a hint of strain in his voice, "but I'd not last long that way, and I'd just as soon not miss the opportunity to pleasure you again."

Oh god, she is more than ready for that, but she presses her weight more heavily onto his hips and gives him a thoughtful look. "You seem pretty sure that you could."

He sweeps his thumb over her cheek. "It's a study to which I'll gladly devote all the days of my life."

That's it, that does it--she leans back and flips around, rolling onto her stomach to reach over the side of the bed. "Swan?" he asks, sitting up and grabbing her ankle when her balance shifts too far, but the extra few inches are enough to snag what she's looking for.

She digs into the pocket of her sweatpants and retrieve the strip of condoms, tearing one off and throwing the rest in the direction of the nightstand. The pants she drops again, and then sits back beside him.

He gets it just before she rips open the packet, and gives her a slow, avid smile. "I do appreciate a woman who knows what she wants," he says, and rubs his chin against her shoulder, then soothes the burn with his tongue.

"Shut up, or you're doing this yourself," she says, but there's too much laughter in her voice to make the threat credible.

She rolls the condom onto him without teasing him further--she wants this too much and so does he, the air growing thick between them. She laces her fingers behind his neck and rests her forearms on his shoulders for balance as she straddles him, easing herself down onto him with a long, unsteady exhale.

He kisses her like he can't stand not to, and she feels the same, rolling her hips into his because she needs them to _move_.

She breaks off the kiss when she has to breathe, pressing her forehead to his. The flush on his cheeks has spread to his neck and chest, and he looks devastated in the best way. His eyes flutter open and meet hers, and it shouldn't be possible, no one should look that pure in the middle of sex.

He reaches up to cup her face, and she catches his wrist at the last minute. She slides his thumb into her mouth and watches his eyes widen, hears his breath hitch. She runs her tongue along the blunt edge of his nail, takes him deep to taste the metallic tang of his ring, feels his fingers moving restlessly against her jaw, her neck. He gives her a shaky, lopsided grin, and his other arm tightens around her waist.

She lets his thumb slip free with an obscene little pop, then pulls his hand down, trailing his thumb wetly down her neck, over her collarbone. She lets him go, and he keeps going, cupping her breast, rubbing his thumb over her nipple. She makes a noise in the back of her throat, and he leans in, his breath hot on her ear. "It's all right, Emma," he says, the growl in his voice doing unholy things to her insides. "Let me hear you, love."

He smooths his hand across her stomach, then dips his thumb down to where they're joined, demanding circles that have her panting roughly. " _Fuck_ , Killian," she whispers, a desperate whine in her voice.

She's not generally noisy during sex, but that seems to be enough for him--he bears down with his thumb and tightens his arm around her, pulling her into the rocking of his hips, and that sends her over the edge with a gritty moan that almost hurts coming out.

He follows right after, breathing her name against her cheek, his forehead pressed against her temple. She's still breathing hard when he draws her into a languid kiss--no demands, just a "so glad to be here, so glad it's you" kind of kiss. Gentle and sweet, it warms her through, simpler and more powerful than any magic.

Too soon, they have to deal with petty realities, like untangling themselves without knees or elbows crushing anything vital. She takes care of the condom (she is _so_ taking the trash with her when she goes; it doesn't matter what werewolf noses can smell, there are _limits_ ). He gathers her tangled hair away from her sweaty back, laughing at the face she makes. It's not storybook perfect, but that somehow makes it better, because it's more _them_.

On her way back from the trash can (of course it's halfway across the room), she catches a hint of watchfulness in his face, the kind he'd get during her "Emma has her head up her ass about New York" phase. "What is it?" she asks, sitting beside him, covering his hand with hers.

He glances down at their linked hands (he'd threaded his fingers through hers immediately, as if by instinct), then looks back up with a faint smile. "Wondering whether I'm going to wake in the morning to find this was a far-too-vivid dream brought on by Granny's dinner special."

"If Granny's using magic mushrooms in her mushroom gravy, I'm going to have to arrest her," she says, and watches him blink in confusion.

Sometimes she does it on purpose, just to tweak him--he's got a neverending supply of innuendo to use on her, but she's got the power of pop culture behind her, 157 channels and nothing on. A lot of the time, though, she honestly forgets that he never had the Storybrooke curse infodump that everyone in town did--which seems ridiculous, that she could forget that: he's a fairytale pirate, with head-to-toe leather and a hook. 

But so often he seems like the most _real_ person she knows--Mary Margaret has that unfailing optimism, David had his noble strength, Regina has the imperiousness of two worlds, the list goes on. Killian is--amazing, but he can also be just as incredulous and sarcastic and skeptical as she is, and everything--else--aside, it's _nice_ to spend time with someone who doesn't make her feel like she's kind of a failure for not knowing how the fuck ogres hunt, or whatever.

(Who really _gets_ it that, just because life is good now, doesn't mean it always has been; that hope is kind of a new thing to hold, the shape of it strange and unfamiliar; that having been broken is going to mean there's some jagged edges that still need smoothing down.)

And it's that understanding that lets her read him, too, when she allows herself, when she stops pushing her feelings aside. The wariness in him is all too familiar: _how long can I have this? How much will losing it hurt?_

He's worried she might run again.

She's not sure whether to be bothered by that--she'd said she wanted to stop running, but given her history, well. But before she can even decide, she realizes that's not it, not really. It's not about her leaving, so much as it's about him getting left.

Not like she has a monopoly on emotional scars.

So she pushes at his hip to get him out of the way and pulls down the kind-of-trashed covers. "On the other hand, you'll probably just wake up to me drooling on your pillow, so, y'know," she says, and waves her hand vaguely. "Pick your nightmare."

"I'll have to contend with the horror," he says, and leans down to kiss her forehead. She stretches up and catches his mouth, burying both hands in his hair, and gathers him close, kissing him until he sinks down, the tension easing out of him, his body warm and loose beside her. 

"I'll see you in the morning," she murmurs, and feels his answering smile against her lips.

"Indeed you will," he breathes, and the words taste like happiness.

* * *

She sleeps through the night, and wakes in the morning pleased and content, finding herself pulled flush against him, his arm tight around her body.

_Pirate_ , she thinks fondly, and starts considering the very best way to wake him up.

**Author's Note:**

> This was going to be a short little "first time" fic. I don't even know what happened.


End file.
